No Light, No Light
by ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: John lost the light in his eyes the same time Sherlock lost his. John is suffering, and it's hurting the people that care about him most. Warnings for suicidal thoughts.


_John pushed his way through the crowd. "He's my friend, he's _my _friend!" spilling from his lips as he shoved people out of the way, trying to get to Sherlock. He looked at the man on the pavement, blood pooling around his head like a halo, eyes open and bright blue, but nothing there, no light, no light in those bright blue eyes. It wasn't the blood, or the pallor of the skin, but the lack of brilliance in those eyes that caused John to crumple to the ground, hands from bystanders reaching out to lower him softly to the ground. Where had they been when Sherlock had fallen, why had no one been there to catch him?_

John woke up panting and sweating as usual, the dreams becoming more frequent the longer time went on. He'd gone back to his therapist, she told him it would get easier. It hadn't. In fact it had gotten worse. John couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and was becoming a mere shell of the man he used to be.

* * *

Mycroft came by bi-weekly to share a cuppa and sit in silence with the only man that cared for Sherlock as much as he. Mycroft had it worse in a way he thought. _No light, no light in those grey eyes._ He remembers himself thinking this the first time he is able to get into Baker Street without John slamming the door in his face. He watched John deteriorate over time, first the light in his eyes, then the limp returned, and now, now John was becoming emaciated and Mycroft feared for his health. Of course, Mycroft knew what it was that plagued John. He had the transcripts from every therapy visit and what John shared with Miss Thompson was enough to make Mycroft hurt for him.

_June 21 2012. John Watson therapy session 48._

_John has lost passion for most anything, even lacks lustre in speaking to me. Death of best friend, 'man I loved' – John's own admission, has significantly impacted his view on life. Feels there is no longer a reason for him to live. Blames Sherlock's brother for death, blames himself for the death. Wishes he could take Sherlock's place._

After that particular therapy session, Mycroft had put John under twenty-four hour surveillance, needing to keep the good doctor alive.

Mycroft knew, knew his brother was still alive and was angry at Sherlock for making him carry this burden, for making him a pawn in this mad chess game where the only one losing was John. Sherlock had been hurt, but John had been crushed, shattered, and destroyed by Sherlock's death.

Mycroft had warned Sherlock of taking too long, of not getting back to John in time. There had been three nights already that he had sat there, eyes glued to a CCTV monitor, hand on the phone as he watched John pull out his Browning, turn it over in his hands. He knew John was weighing it, not just the actual, tangible weight, but the weight of finality versus continuing on in a downward spiral of self-hate and destruction.

John had chosen life each time, had chosen to keep on living although Mycroft didn't know if one could consider it living more than merely existing, John's corporeal form still on the earth while his soul had left him.

* * *

John ached. A deep, throbbing, in your bones sting that one couldn't get rid of no matter how many pain pills he downed. He wanted to erase the pain, to make it all disappear. He wanted to fall into the void and not give a damn if he came back or not. He wanted Sherlock, his Sherlock, and he was his Sherlock, no matter what anyone else thought or said. He wanted Sherlock alive, breathing, the light in his eyes brightening with the news of a new case.

John didn't know how much longer he could go on.

He had briefly thought about asking Mycroft to put him into an institution. Sometimes John didn't know if he should be on his own. He refused to leave Baker Street, to leave what little bit of Sherlock he had left. He slept in the man's dressing gown that was wearing in at the elbows and had been drenched more than once with the salty tears that had fallen from John's eyes.

A few times he had sat there holding his gun, staring at it as if it would end the pain, and it would, in a way. But what about Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Greg even, he couldn't do that, couldn't do what Sherlock had done to him. John had place the gun back in the nightstand and shut the drawer, sighing as he dressed for bed, wearing Sherlock's clothing.

As he closed his eyes, the sound of a violin picked its way towards him, drifting through the bedroom and John ignored it, just as he had every other time, knowing it was his imagination, the music stopping at the same note every time, right where Sherlock had left off in his composition before he left.

John thought it was appropriate the melody had ended abruptly, much like his life with Sherlock. John was nothing without Sherlock and he hated himself for it. Sherlock was his head and he was Sherlock's heart.

* * *

_No light, no light in those bright grey eyes._ Sherlock thought morosely as he sat the violin down and exited the flat as silently as he had entered. _I never knew daylight could be so violent. _Sherlock hated this, hated lying to John, but it was the only way to keep John safe. He only hoped he hadn't cost John the light in his eyes forever.


End file.
